


Growing Apart

by mormoriarty



Series: Fraying at the Edges [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Blind Character, F/M, Original Characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:33:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mormoriarty/pseuds/mormoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jenna's POV.<br/>Continuation of  "State of Grace" and "In Hiding and In Love".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Growing Apart

Coming back from an early dinner out with friends, my mood sobers a little as the cab pulls over to stop at the door to our flat building. I pay the cabbie.

“Goodnight, miss,” he says politely before driving away.

 

The sun is setting already and the streetlights flicker on one by one, making a soft but audible noise. I nearly drop my keys trying to fit them into the keyhole.  Finally pushing open the door to our flat building, I trudge up the stairs, the alcohol in my system making my steps a little bit unsteady, my thoughts a little bit slow.

 

There is soft music coming from inside our flat, so you must be home. The front door’s unlocked, so I push it open gently… _oh._

  
You have company over.

 

I didn’t even expect you to be in, let alone in _with someone else_. Another woman, presumably. There’s a pair of women's ankle boots, and they’re certainly not mine.

My mind is suddenly out of the haze it was in before and my thoughts are moving about three times faster and I’m nearly hyperventilating.

Why, I hardly know.

 

 _I don’t love you anymore,_ I remind myself.

I shouldn’t be so unhappy at this new development. I’m not supposed to care. But if anyone was going to go and start having an “affair” (I mean, an “affair” since we’re still married, but I think of us as separated and nearly divorced), it would be me. I always thought you loved and needed me more than I did you, but I made you make a commitment and marry me. I _made_ you, didn’t I? You never actually wanted to. At first, maybe, but not for forever.

 

I’m too “controlling”, too “obsessive”, too “much of a perfectionist”. Too high-maintenance for you, I think (and you shout). But you, Mason- you’re too loyal. You loved me once, I know you did.

I would have never thought you’d have found someone else while we were still “married”. Had your eye on someone, maybe, but have the nerve to bring them home? Bring them into _our_ home?

Yeah, I know it isn’t right to only start thinking of it as “ _our home_ ” when you’ve finally found someone else…I’m such a bitch, especially to you but you stay with me anyways and you’re still charming and thoughtful and dependable and funny and fucking _gorgeous_.

Anyone would be lucky to have you.

 

 _Why don’t I love you anymore?_ I ask myself.

 

I think you thought I was having one. An affair, that is. I thought about it for a while. Nearly got myself there with a colleague from work. He wasn’t even that handsome. Who am I kidding? I tried to drop little hints just so you’d get jealous, but all you did was grudgingly accept it.

You were okay with me having someone on the side, I guess, as long as it didn’t mean anything. As long as I still came home to you. _Did I love you then?_

 

But we’re young, and we have plenty of time if that’s the type of life we want to live. Little affairs on the side while we keep pretending that our marriage isn’t completely in the shit.

We got married early, and well, it’s a reality that we might end up getting divorced early, too. But living this way, at least for us; it will never make us happy. Not that we have been for a while.

We’ve basically ignored each other for months, making up excuses to be stay at work late or go out with friends, so we can flit in and out of the apartment just so we don’t have to spend days in silence. But there are those strange, wonderful nights where some hidden spark of passion comes back like a light switched on. And we’ll end up spending the evening together over dinner and wine, and somehow end up in bed having this on-and-off-again makeup/breakup sex. It’s dysfunctional, I know, and nothing near what a relationship should be. Hell, it’s definitely nothing near what a marriage should be. I think back to the first time.

 

God knows how long ago it was:

I come home from work, tired and frustrated at more things than I'd care to admit. You’re already home, standing at the stove stirring a pot of something that smells divine. My stomach embarrassingly grumbles, and you look up. We laugh together, and it feels so good, like something’s been lifted off my chest. You look so cute in your white apron, so proud of your cooking (though it is pretty good). I think you even have some flour clinging to your curly hair. I smother a laugh.

 

“It’s Chicken Masala,” you tell me, and then you smile. And I can’t help it, but I fall for it every time. When you ask: “Care to join me, Jenna?”- I say yes.

Conversation flows easily with a good vintage that you pull out. Red wine and dinner with you? Fuck, I wish this was every night. We’d never have fallen out of love. Our marriage would be saved…But I push my thoughts aside and try to enjoy this night while it lasts.

 

We end up watching a film on the telly, sipping more wine. The alcohol seems to soften your barriers, making you all cuddly till we’re intertwined on the couch.

Maybe you’re just an affectionate drunk, but I’m not going to deny you the little kisses you pepper on my arms, watching me more than you’re watching the film. I finally can’t resist, and I pull you up to me to fully kiss you on the mouth. But I don’t expect your reaction to be to suddenly pull me close and kiss me again.

 

One thing leads to another and the next thing I know, we’re closing the bedroom door behind us, alcohol in our bodies making our touches desperate and hurried. I would feel embarrassed if I wasn’t with you- no matter what the state of our marriage, we were once utterly in love and knew each other’s bodies like our own. There is no embarrassment.

I must show you some sign that I want you quite badly, because we never speak. Words aren’t needed when you can read the tension in shoulders, the quick quirk of an eyebrow, or a sparkle in the other’s eyes. And maybe you actually are desperate for a fuck, not just your motions reading that way. And _God,_ I savor every moment of it.

 

When it’s done and over with- and I _hate_ myself for thinking of it that way- I lie awake next to you.

_What have we gotten ourselves into?_

 

But this is hardly the first time it’s happened. As always, we’ll both be drunk or high on emotions and one of us will be touchy-feely until the other finally lets up and we end up together again, our usual feelings for each other set aside for a while.

 

But whether it’s right or not, I’ll admit that the sex is damn good. No love needed to be fuck-buddies, right?

  
  


There’s a rustle that comes from the sitting room that reminds me I’ve been having this alcohol-fueled, silent but extensive mental breakdown in the middle of our foyer. Our flat is relatively large by London standards, but still, I can’t walk up to my bedroom without passing you and…your _fucking_ guest.

Maybe I’ve gone through all of this in my head for nothing. What if you two are just friends? Just talking in there, nothing more. Maybe the music’s just put on to provide background noise.

But then I hear the undeniable sound of kissing. Okay _,_ so, probably _not_ a friend. I sigh.

 

I can’t reign in my curiosity anymore and I try to tiptoe past the sitting room. Well, “try” being the keyword. Alcohol makes quiet coordination quite difficult, I’ve found.

You two are talking to each other, nearly whispering, with your back facing toward me. She doesn’t see me, but I certainly see her.

Goddamnit, Mason, you sure know how to pick a looker.

 

She’s got soft waves of dark brown hair that frame gorgeous green eyes, and she’s shorter than I am, fragile-looking almost, with her delicate, bird-like physique. She’s so fucking pretty.

 

I worry that she’ll see me, but then I start to catch what you’re saying. Focused entirely on your words, I suddenly stumble, knocking over a box on the countertop. _Shit._ You turn.

 

“ _Jenna?_ ” you mouth, your panic evident in your eyes.

Am I supposed to answer? At the moment, I feel too drunk and embarrassed to even speak coherently.

“Mason?” the girl asks. “What’s wrong?” Shit, even her voice sounds perfect; melodic and like her laugh probably sounds like little fairy bells tinkling.

She’s gripping onto your forearms like she’s going to lose her balance any second, but she never looks at me. She doesn’t even turn. Why? Is she choosing to ignore me?

Suddenly, I see it.

The folded up white cane lying next to the sofa.

 

_Oh Mason._


End file.
